The wind volleyed past them like salvoes of artillery. The rain stormed at them from above; spat at them from the rock-face; and leapt up at them from their feet.
Once they halted for a moment, finding a miserable shelter in a crevice of the rock.
"It's a Black Killer's night," panted the Master. "I reck'n he's oot."
"Ay," the boy gasped, "reck'n he is." Up and up they climbed through the blackness, blind and buffeted. The eternal thunder of the rain was all about them; the clamor of the gale above; and far beneath, the roar of angry waters.
Once, in a lull in the storm, the Master turned and looked back into the blackness along the path they had come.
"Did ye hear onythin'?" he roared above the muffled soughing of the wind.
"I thowt I heard a step!" the Master cried, peering down. But nothing could he see.
Then the wind leaped to life again like a giant from his sleep, drowning all sound with its hurricane voice; and they turned and bent to their task again.
